


Priestly??

by boykingofhell (alloftimeandspace)



Series: Codependency, Winchester Style [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drabble, Fluff, Hair Dyeing, If You Squint - Freeform, M/M, One Shot, Punk!Dean, Season 2, Smut, barely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 05:20:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9705104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alloftimeandspace/pseuds/boykingofhell
Summary: Sam dyes Dean's hair, and really, really likes it(side note: no mohawk. just to clarify)





	

Freckled nose wrinkled, Dean shifted nervously in his seat and tried vainly to catch a glimpse of his reflection in the dull glass of the microwave door. Sam sighed and stilled his hands. “Stop moving,” he ordered, for the fifth time in the past half hour. 

“Sorry.” Dean shifted again and tried to relax. The movement of Sam’s hands through his hair was sort of soothing, if he stayed still long enough to take it in, but his body was vibrating with nervous energy. When they were kids, he used to cut Sam’s hair sometimes. Not that Sam ever let him cut it short, but it had to be trimmed every so often; Dean pulling out the kitchen chair and patting the seat of it with the air of a teenager acting like an adult, coaxing Sammy into it with a boyish, crooked smile and a cocked head, waving the scissors from the first aid kit around and faking a bad Italian accent as he narrated to Sam what he was doing at his back. Haircuts used to make Sam nervous, but he trusted Dean and only Dean with his precious hair. The first and last time John had tried to give Sam a haircut, there’d been a raging fight, furniture hurled across the room and smashed against the thin walls, Dean shoving Sam out the door and following him to the Impala with the keys jingling between his fingers. Sam would never have admitted it then, but he liked sleeping next to Dean in the backseat, the two boys curled up around each other like koi in a pond. Dean had draped his jacket over Sam’s shivering frame (too skinny, baby, gotta put some meat on your bones) and comforted him, both pretending Sam wasn’t crying. Since then, no one touched Sam’s hair but Dean. 

And now the roles were reversed. “You better not mess it up,” he warned, the words coming out as less of a threat than he meant them to. 

“I won’t if you’d just  **stop moving** ,” Sam muttered through gritted teeth, pausing his hands in mid-air again, suspended above Dean’s hair with an orchestral gracefulness that someone with his height and stature shouldn’t have been allowed to have. 

“Sorry,” Dean mumbled again. Sam turned his back to Dean; Dean heard him pop the cap on a plastic bottle and fiddle with it for a moment before facing him again, disposable bowl in his gloved hands. 

“Last layer,” he promised, skilled fingers scooping up some of the contents of the bowl and running it through the tips of Dean’s hair. 

“How’s it look?” Dean asked hoarsely, fiddling with the ring on his first finger. 

“Just be patient.” There was no doubt that Sam had that self-satisfied smirk across his face, always the little brother. “There,” he said, some time later with satisfied finality, setting down the bowl on the table behind him and peeling off the gloves, guiding Dean to the sink. “Bend over,” he instructed, and Dean snorted. 

“Ain’t the first time you’ve said that.” 

He could feel Sam’s glare and, in the interest of the fate of his hair, bent down obediently over the side of the sink with his head tipped toward the drain. He heard the water running, a safe distance from his head as Sam let it warm up. “Ready?” was all the warning he got before the warm water was running in rivers through his hair, swirling a mix of electric blue and onyx black against the lackluster, tarnished silver. Sam’s hands carded gently through his hair, coaxing out the excess colour. His neck started to cramp but he held still, letting his brother do all the work as the water trickled down his face. It seemed like ages when Sam finally maneuvered him back from the sink, wrapped one of the threadbare motel towels around his head, and allowed him to stand up fully, which Dean did as he rubbed a hand across the back of his aching neck.

“I’m getting too old for this,” he said with a laugh, throwing a grin towards Sam. Sam just shook his head and chuckled. 

“Dude, you’re twenty seven.” Dean shrugged and leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, eying Sam. 

“You sure about this?” 

“Trust me. C’mere.” 

He walked to where Sam stood and let Sam manhandle him, turn him around so that his back was to Sam, unwrap the towel from his head, run his long fingers through Dean’s damp hair. Sam spun Dean back to face him with a grin spreading across his face. “You look like a fucking badass,” he said finally, in answer to Dean’s worried look, lips twisted into a self-satisfied smile. “C’mon,” he practically whined, pulling Dean towards the tiny bathroom and shoving him in front of the mirror, cracked at the edges but useful nonetheless. Dean looked up at his reflection in disbelieving awe. 

“I look like such a badass. No fucking way.” He winked at himself in the mirror and smirked and Sam laughed again, threading an arm around Dean’s waist and resting his head on Dean’s shoulder. 

“I did good,” he murmured lowly in Dean’s ear, free hand coming up to tangled in Dean’s freshly dyed hair. The reflection in the mirror was entirely new, ink-black hair spiked and messy, the tips stained vivid blue, Dean’s bright eyes more prominent than ever next to the black set against his face. 

“Holy shit,” he mumbled, staring at himself intently, hand reaching up hesitantly to touch the dyed tips, ignoring the way his brother’s hand was dipping suggestively past his waist. Sam impatiently tugged at him, half dragging him back into the bedroom and away from the mirror, tossing Dean onto the bed with a dark, heavy look in his eyes. The corner of Dean’s mouth curved upward. “Eager much?” he teased, cockiness disappearing as Sam followed him onto the bed, leaning over him on his hands and knees. 

“You have no idea how fucking hot you are.” It was practically a growl, Sam bending down to capture Dean’s mouth in his, hands moving rough and possessive through his hair as his mouth moved to Dean’s neck, biting insistently at the skin. He dipped his head to capture the sweet spot behind Dean’s ear, his nose filling with the acrid smell of hair dye, all his doing, slotting between Dean’s legs, fallen open for him as he’d tossed him onto the bed. Dean clawed at Sam’s back and worked his hips against Sam’s, legs now bent around him, the two tangling together and moving hot and heavy against each other, Sam’s hands still twisted in Dean’s hair.

Later, curled around each other like a single entity, like two teenagers twisting together like koi in the backseat, Dean was relaxed in Sam’s touch, Sam’s fingers gently stroking through his hair, humming softly. Dean snickered quietly against Sam’s chest and Sam paused, looking down at Dean. “What?”

“I think you have a fetish.” 

Dean’s laugh rumbled through Sam’s chest as Sam rolled his eyes and muttered, “Go to sleep,” with the most annoyance as he could manage, silently thinking to himself that he’d be more than glad to dye Dean’s hair as much as he wanted. 

**Author's Note:**

> fun fact: I recently dyed my hair and thought of this while doing so
> 
> come talk to me on tumblr - http://demonblood-boyking.tumblr.com/  
> // currently taking fic requests //


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